


Clear As Mud

by tealeaf523 (ConstantComment)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic Revealed, Post Season 3, Season/Series 04, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:02:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstantComment/pseuds/tealeaf523
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War has outcomes clear as mud. Arthur knows this in theory, but what he does not know is that he is about to experience it in practice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clear As Mud

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't planning on finishing this so soon, but the finale of Merlin approaches and my window of opportunity may be closing in very rapidly. Please concrit as you like. I started writing this fic at the end of Season 3, so that might give you an idea of why things were written the way they were. This is a much more serious canon than the series is, to be honest. It's canon compliant til around Series 4's "Lancelot Du Lac" episode, with the exception that Agravaine doesn't really come into play in this story. Gwen is out of the picture, as well.

-x-

He is weary. The grime from battle – sweat and dirt and blood – clings to him like a second skin, makes him sick with burdens and weighs him down. Arthur looks to the grey sky before winding his way through the maze of Camelot’s tents. His men – the ones who remain – cough and limp back to their own retreats where their squires wait. The Medical tent shines like a yellow beacon with the light of a hundred candles in the blanketing dusk. It is the loudest of the tents, too. The shouted orders of harried nurses and physicians carry out over the grounds, all the way to where he stands now. He can see Gaius in the gap of the tent and hopes there aren’t too many casualties, fatal wounds, or scars to be worn for the rest of each life.

He will visit; he will. Once he has…

-x-

Merlin is waiting for him in his tent, muddied boots left in the grass outside the entrance. Arthur hesitates there, watching his manservant putter about nervously, clearly frayed at the edges with contagious worry. The tub in the corner is filled with hot water, steam flitting across the glassy surface. Arthur’s attention is drawn back to Merlin when the man makes a noise, a hiss, peeling off his jacket to reveal a gash on his forearm. He looks decades older in that moment. Arthur opens his mouth to speak but a handmaid bumps into him first, worry translating into frantic, indelicate movement as she delivers the last bucket of water. Merlin looks up at her blustering apology. He swallows audibly but waits as the girl, pale with the horrors of battle, dumps the water into the tub.

Arthur drops his helmet to the rug-covered ground and begins unbuckling his baldric, then belt, then rests Excalibur against a fur-covered end table. Merlin watches quietly, guiltily. He hurries over once Arthur has reached a point where he is unable to go on without help, though, no longer thinking of himself. Only thinking of Arthur, now.

“You’re bleeding,” Merlin mutters, unbuckling Arthur’s plates of armour. He deposits them near Arthur’s sword before lifting the heavy links of Arthur’s hauberk over his head. His fingers trace over Arthur’s cheekbone where an opponent had missed his eye with an ill-timed thrust of a dagger and left a harsh scratch.

Arthur huffs a laugh, feeling the adrenaline of that moment well up in the pit of his stomach. “That was to be expected. But I am lucky.”

“The knights?” Merlin asks, brow furrowing. The chainmail clinks as he rests it over a bench.

“Percival is the worst of them.”

Merlin makes a hurt sound; as if he could have done anything to stop the angered horse from trampling on the knight’s legs after an enemy had thrown him to the ground with the swing of a mace.

“He will live, although his shield is broken along with several bones. He was badly bloodied when they carried him away.” Arthur scrubs a hand through his hair, chest tight.

“Elyan lost an ear,” Merlin murmurs as he pours scented oils into the bath.

Arthur does not have the energy to behave bravely. He leans into Merlin as the taller man helps him out of his remaining clothing.

“And I don’t think Percival was the worst,” Merlin continues, cupping a protective hand over Arthur’s shoulder. “Young Bors… Bors had a stomach wound. He was so pale—”

Arthur sways dangerously but Merlin catches him, swinging his arm around Arthur’s ribcage and clinging as Arthur finally steps into the bath. His feet tingle and burn in the hot water. Bors was—is—like a young brother, barely of age and purer than most. Blindly faithful.

“I’m sorry. Just get in. Get clean, Arthur,” Merlin whispers regretfully.

“Merlin. Shut up,” Arthur hisses, the heat of the water stinging against a gash on his lower thigh.

Merlin sponges carefully over his face, dipping his long fingers into the water to wet the steadily reddening cloth.

Arthur watches him vaguely wondering how loyal one has to be in order to so stupidly run into battle after one’s master. He had to have been completely unarmed save for some old chain mail. Merlin is licking at his bottom lip as he concentrates, saliva shining up the pink flesh until it glistens in the candlelight.

Outside night has fallen and Merlin works on, mopping at his collarbone and shoulders until Arthur nods back, eyes falling closed. Merlin cups Arthur’s head back until his hair sinks beneath the comforting water. Those long fingers run through and through and through his hair until it is dark gold again, and Arthur opens his eyes a crack to watch Merlin’s face transform from concentration to slow-burning admiration. Arthur feels a rush of deep, overwhelmed affection settle in his chest, pushing against his sternum.

“Get in, Merlin,” Arthur says.

-x-

Pale as ivory, Merlin slips into the water, shivering at the warmth. Arthur takes his time, pulls Merlin by the arm until the younger man rests in the splay of Arthur’s legs, humming as Arthur scrubs away the caked blood, mud, worry. There is something, an invisible heaviness that seems to have placed itself on and in and around Arthur, and for a moment he believes he is the only one who feels it, but then after Arthur pours a final handful of water over Merlin’s black curls, Merlin looks over his shoulder, eyes blue and so focused.

Arthur pulls Merlin against him, and they curl together, twining fingers and arms and legs and hearts until Arthur can no longer feel the heaviness between them because there is no space to hold it. Merlin’s lips settle against a vulnerable patch of skin under Arthur jaw with a sureness so tangible it makes Arthur squirm, press himself tighter to Merlin’s back.

“Arthur,” Merlin says.

Arthur fans his fingers over Merlin’s heart.

-x-

It is decided once the water cools that life is better when one is dry and under a mountain of blankets and furs.

While Arthur hides the fullness of his cock behind the hastily retrieved bath linen, Merlin for some reason continues about his duties on the pretence that he has not just shared bathwater with his king, while his king was still in it. He is red in the face, fidgety like before, until Arthur pulls him forward rests their foreheads together.

Then Arthur dries Merlin with his linens, rubs the smooth contours and hard edges of Merlin’s body until he’s rosy pink and as hard as Arthur has been for what feels like an age.

“Stay with me, if you’d like,” Arthur offers, and Merlin follows him to the blankets, burrowing into the warmth as Arthur does the same.

They find one another in the close air under the covers, and Merlin whispers Arthurs name again before their noses bump, their lips meet.

-x-

Arthur wakes slowly, aching and muddled like he had a tankard of ale to himself the night before. But, he realizes too soon that he is not in Camelot in his own bed. He is not recovering from celebration; he is revisiting the last several days of battle like they happened to someone else at another time. The memories echo fuzzily as he wakes. Though when he finally opens his eyes to the view of a darkened tent breathing slowly with the wind, he knows in a gut-wrenching moment that five days ago he did lead his people to battle and, for some of them, to death.

“Sire.” Merlin’s voice is a welcome sound.

Arthur turns to the voice, hair mussing against the pillows. “Must I get up?”

“Not yet, I don’t think.” Merlin sets the plate of grapes and bread upon a table nearby and without asking lifts the blankets and sits, toeing off his boots and curling up against Arthur’s side. His clothing is cool and makes Arthur shiver, but none of that stops Arthur from brushing a knuckle against Merlin’s jaw, turning toward him and closing his eyes again.

“You look like you could sleep for one hundred years,” says Merlin.

“I could.”

“Don’t.”

Arthur breathes in and out, wishing time would slow just this once so he could catch up.

Merlin’s fingers are feather-light on his wrist. “Most of the camp is not awake yet. I would give them another hour. Let the men rest. They haven’t for some time, and neither have you.”

“Merlin, are you giving me orders?”

He can feel Merlin’s lips against his brow.

“Did you hear anything about what caused the explosion in the farthest field yesterday? The fires that killed Morgana? They were blue. I hadn’t known there was a sorcerer who would fight for Camelot.”

Merlin’s lips press harder against Arthur’s skin, like he’s kissing away the countless questions lingering in the forefront of Arthur’s mind. “Arthur, another hour.”

“Mnh,” Arthur replies. Perhaps he is agreeing too quickly to put matters of war away for now, but Merlin is stroking slowly down Arthur’s bare flank and confusing what is important with what he needs. When Merlin kisses him Arthur barely responds, distracted by the long fingers that trace along the cleft of his bottom.

“Open up,” Merlin demands, hushed. Arthur’s thoughts scramble between those words and Merlin’s next actions, a tongue lapping kitten-like at his lips while Merlin’s fingernails trail up his back.

Arthur opens up. He gasps against Merlin, heart seeming to burst as it does as it was told, and his tongue meets Merlin’s, and his hips roll.

“Merlin, Merlin,” Arthur whispers.

-x-

Mass burials are never an event to look forward to. Though the pain in his chest makes him weak in a way that no touch from Merlin could ever heal, Arthur insists on hauling wood to each burial site, placing swords worthy of a fallen warrior over their hearts, and watching as they all chase away the lingering fog with the tremendous heat of the lit pyres.

He makes his way toward the Medical tent once the smell of burning flesh becomes too much. Merlin leads him through, soft skin of his fingers brushing against Arthur’s knuckles every time they pass an empty cot.

Bors is unconscious, but alive, so Arthur kneels at his side and prays.

Next is Percival. He is conscious but less talkative than usual, so all that is exchanged is a nod and, although Arthur won’t care to mention it again, a brush of a palm over Percival’s sweaty hair.

He talks briefly with his knights, grasps arms with Gwaine and Leon—who is too worried for Bors to withhold a strong hug from him—and Elyan, with his bandaged head.

Gaius is chipper despite all odds, which Arthur is thankful for. Merlin is, however, struck silent.

“Did you see the crater where Morgana last stood, Sire?”

Merlin inhales sharply, taking the salve from Gaius and trotting over to a soldier with a minor head wound out of earshot.

“I have not yet had the chance.”

“You have a powerful sorcerer on your side, my Lord. Power that Camelot has never seen.”

Arthur watches Merlin chatter nervously with the soldier for a moment before turning to Gaius. “I am thankful to them. I’m afraid I made a mistake in not including the Druids in my quest to unify the five Kingdoms. I wish I would have worked in league with this man of magic.”

Gaius hums, tutting at a nurse who brought him the wrong poultice and bringing Arthur to a fresh cot. He works on the contusions over Arthur’s eye, chest and leg when Arthur finally admits to the wounds.

“I must admit I am nervous to welcome such a power to my side,” Arthur says finally, eyes watering at the sting on his brow.

Gaius starts, “Do you remember what I told you, months ago after returning from the mines where Morgana had taken me?”

“It seems longer than that.”

“So you do remember.”

Arthur nods, watches Gaius pour water from a jug and hand it to him. He prods him with the goblet when Arthur waves him off. “You said that within this great kingdom is a rich variety of people with a range of beliefs. There are many more who believe in the world I want to create.”

“Good, good,” Gaius comments, pleased, and Arthur can’t help the swell of childish pride that comes from the fatherly pat to his cheek. “And not all of those people—your people—practice magic, but some do—and soon more will.”

“And those with such power?”

“Magic is not always evil, Arthur, do not assume that. Do not travel down the path marked by your father. Magic is like power—it is the person who chooses to manipulate it or cultivate it.”

Arthur sips at his water.

“Gaius, Sir William needs your assistance.”

Merlin’s voice startles Arthur from his musings, but his warm hand calms him just as quickly.

Just as soon as Gaius shuffles away, however, Merlin is pulling Arthur down the rows of cots and around the tent poles until they’re out in the foggy air again.

The wind smells like smoke.

“Come on,” Merlin murmurs and takes his hand in place of his arm, lacing their fingers together.

-x-

He leads Arthur away from the field, weaving them through the underbrush of the forest. His face is a blank mask, but Arthur can read him too well. He knows Merlin is so upset it hurts him, pain snug behind his ribcage and encircling his throat. He’s seen that look before—he’s worn that look before.

They come to a small brook, far enough away that the air now smells dewy and sounds sleepy, no longer contaminated with war.

Merlin shucks his shoes and dips his toes in the cool water before lying in the grass, fiddling with his neckerchief. Arthur can see the bruises his mouth left early this morning.

Arthur sits with Merlin, leaning back on his hands and staring up at the canopy of reddening leaves of early autumn.

“It was me,” Merlin says suddenly.

Arthur frowns, swivels his head to watch the play of emotions in Merlin’s lips, eyes, brow. “Does it surprise you that I often don’t have any idea of what you’re talking about?”

Merlin sits up, scrambles to face Arthur. His spindly fingers find Arthur’s wrist and hold tight. “Arthur,” he begins. “Know that I love you.”

Arthur’s insides twist. This should be a happy confession.

“I love you—as my King and as a man. Say you believe me.”

“Merlin, of course I—I trust you more than anyone!” Arthur admits, confused. He’s said this many times.

Merlin’s face crumples before him, tears squeezing out from his eyelids.

“Merlin, stop. You will stop crying! Tell me what’s wrong!”

Merlin shakes with this sudden, unexplainable grief, and Arthur can barely contain his impotent rage at this. He manhandles Merlin until they face one another completely.

“Merlin, tell me—I love you… Stop…”

Merlin obeys, murmurs, “I have magic.”

-x-

He will wake up; he will… Once he has…

Once he has put this strange dream behind him.

Arthur looks down at his feet where Merlin kneels, grasping at his cloak and trousers and rubbing restless palms over his boots—God knows how he came to be standing in the forest with Merlin—bright, loving Merlin—crying at his feet.

Merlin is whispering questions, pleas up at him through his own distress.

“Are you Emrys?” Arthur says finally.

“Yes, yes, but I have always—Arthur, God—I always fought for you. My king,” Merlin says.

“You killed Morgana?”

Merlin nods, solemn save for the quiver of his lower lip. “And I have killed before, but only to protect you.”

“Merlin,” Arthur whispers, backing away and bringing a hand to his eyes.

“Please, Arthur! I’ve wanted to tell you… for years. For _years_ , Arthur. I never wanted to keep anything from you.”

“I let you into my bed,” Arthur begins, choked.

“But, I am still…” Merlin gestures at himself, hopeless. “I’m still…” he says, trailing off with defeat.

Arthur advances on Merlin quickly, kneeling before him and grabbing his jaw in a tight grip. He kisses Merlin, violent with anger, but when Merlin just whimpers, not fighting but submitting, Arthur loses his energy.

He falls away. The end of his cloak is wet in the brook, and there is an invisible hand squeezing at his heart.

“I’m still Merlin,” Merlin says.

Arthur is weary.

-x-

 _“Do you remember what I told you?”_

 _I remember what you taught me._

He remembers his nursemaid telling him a story when he was very young. Life is like rubble—like the stones in the stream, and one must be like water, not to conquer life, but to shape it and learn from it.

 _“Now, Arthur,” said Donna, dabbing at an angry scrape on Arthur’s pudgy knee, “_ you _are like earth. So stubborn and resistant to discipline. You’re like a rockslide, rolling faster and faster when you encounter things in your way, making them jagged with your hard head!” She knocked once on his skull, huffing when Arthur gave a tremendous pout._

 _“You need a little water in you. It’ll muddle you up a bit, but in the end will make you flexible. Water smoothes over obstacles with her slow progress. She makes a new path when there was none before.”_

Arthur didn’t understand her at the time.

Nor currently did he think it was incredibly apt to describe such a philosophy to a five-year-old, but it did have some sense to it.

Maybe Merlin was the water to his earth. And they were muddy, dirtied with their own combined histories, but they did work.

They had always worked.

Gaius had known that. Had been talking about Merlin those months ago, when he talked of loyalty and acceptance, change.

He had people looking after him. He had Merlin.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, and the man—sorcerer—raised his head from his knees.

Arthur reached for him, grasped his hand and pulled him close. Arthur’s nose touched to Merlin’s cold cheek, and his arm wrapped around Merlin’s shoulders.

“Will you take me to the crater?”

-x-

It is more of a chasm. A chasm one could only see the bottom of if he lit a torch and threw it into the depths.

Arthur stands at the edge of it, watching the torch sputter against the moist ground.

“Mordred is still out there, but he should be easier to confront without allies,” Merlin comments after a while.

Arthur watches Merlin out of the corner of his eye, sees him for what he is—what he _was_ for as long as Arthur has known him. He sees the betrayal, he sees the self-hatred, but mostly he sees Merlin’s unfaltering loyalty.

It is unclear, both as a King of the newly united Albion and as a man with his heart broken and healed yet again, where to go from where he and Merlin stand. But, he isn’t sure that he had expected he or his Kingdom to come out of this war with only clean wounds.

It will take time, surely.

“You cut her down with magic?” he asks, and Merlin nods. “Can you not do the same with Mordred?”

Merlin looks at him, assessing. “I can, Arthur. And I will if you want me to.”

Arthur pauses at those words. “But you think there is another way to achieve peace.”

Merlin nods. “He was my ally once. And if you lift the ban on magic, we may—”

“I will, Merlin.” Arthur turns fully to Merlin, grasping his shoulder. “I will lift it.”

“Don’t do it for me.”

“I’m doing it for the good of the Kingdom, but I must tell you there is never anything that I do that is not in part for the ones I love, Merlin.”

Merlin lets out a shaky breath and turns back to the gaping hole in the ground. “May I heal it?” he asks.

Arthur starts. He does not know what Merlin can do. What he is capable of—what magic is truly capable of beside destruction.

“I would be honoured to watch.”

Merlin stretches his arms out and fans his fingers in the air, like he is feeling for something tangible. And almost as quickly as Merlin reaches out, energy, old and young all at once, pushes back around them. It reminds Arthur of several hours prior, in the bath with Merlin, when his heart hurt with the heaviness of the past and the future.

The ground begins to shift, rapid and slow, growing and receding, blooming and decaying to mould to Merlin’s will. It is as though he is quickening the passing of time in the angry crevice of earth in front of them. It is a miracle, a dream.

Arthur watches Merlin lift his hands higher, lift his chin, too. His pupils are golden through the slits of his eyelids, and his face is ethereal with joy and wholeness. Arthur’s eyes water at the sight.

When all is finished, the crack in the earth is gone, in its place growing a small grove of elder trees.

Merlin’s eyes are still gold when he looks at Arthur, and for the first time Arthur is terrified of his manservant, his friend, his lover.

“Let me kiss you,” Merlin says. He is still Merlin, vulnerable but strong because of it. He holds out a hand.

Arthur gathers his courage and grasps Merlin’s fingers, tracing a cheekbone with his finger as the gold fades to bright blue again, and presses his lips to Merlin’s.


End file.
